C'est La Vie
by theartistformerlyknownas
Summary: A series of vignettes on the theme of one Kenny McCormick... Slash, multiple pairings. Basically Kenny/Everyone, Stan/Kyle, Tweek/Craig, and others.
1. Split

**Author's Notes: Most of these drabbles (definately not 100 words, oops) are going to be unconnected and told through a variety of different perspectives. For clarity's sake, I'll mention the POV in the chapter title. Enjoy!**

**POV: Kyle**

**Pairing: Kenny/Stan**

**XXX**

Okay, so I think I've got it figured out. Kenny dies, right? Gets run through with swords, concussed by hot frying pans, crushed by stage lights, loses limbs, bleeds out, blah, blah, blah. But when he comes back, he's fixed. No scars, no cuts or scrapes, nothing. He looks the same as he ever did.

The lucky bastard always manages to get a clean bill of health somehow, maybe as a thank-you for getting Satan out of that abusive relationship. I've been hanging out with Kenny since we were five years old, and the only time I've seen a scratch on him was from a nasty accident in gym class. Javelins. Really gross.

I think any marks he keeps have to be non-lethal. You know, from superficial things like bumping your elbow or getting a paper cut.

Or being punched in the face.

I hadn't believed it when Cartman told me what exactly Stan and Kenny were doing in the locker rooms after P.E. I hadn't believed it when Wendy let slip that Kenny had taken off after Tweek. I hadn't believed it when Stan looked me in the eye and denied the whole thing. I hadn't believed it when Kenny stood on the icy railroad tracks outside his house, arms crossed, and told me that Stan was better off.

"Dude, he needs to grow the fuck up."

All I remember after that is balling up my fist and splitting his lower lip wide open.

Five months and eight deaths later, the scar is still there, white and puffy. It hasn't done any damage to the infamous McCormick charm, but I didn't really expect it to.

Stan loves it.

**XXX**

**Reviews are greatly appreciated!**


	2. Espresso

**Author's Notes: This prompt just kind of wrote itself. I mean, how could it not? Oh, and I don't know if I mentioned that I got twelve prompts by flipping through the dictionary and taking whatever my finger landed on.**

**POV: Kenny**

**Pairing: Kenny/Tweek**

**XXX**

"Are you, ngk, are you sure this is okay?"

I sigh and nudge him back against the arm of the sofa. "No, Tweek, I'm not sure. In fact, I've never been so un-sure of anything in my life."

His eyes widen. "Oh shit! Are you serious?"

Note to self: Tweek and sarcasm don't mix. Like, at all. I'm starting to think this whole thing's a mistake, and not just because I'm having a bitch of a time trying to kiss someone who never holds still.

"Dude, relax." I lean down and run my tongue across his lower lip, grinning when he squeaks and shivers against me. There. Right there. That's the reason I can't get up off his giant leather couch and leave. Tweek's so damn...cute. But cute's not really the right word; it's more like "sweet". I mean, he's been with _Craig_, for Chrissake, and he still manages to give off a totally innocent vibe. It's nice. I, on the other hand, haven't been innocent for a long time. Especially not now. See, Tweek and Craig aren't technically broken up yet. They're just kind of on the outs.

There's a tug on my arms, and Tweek pulls me down on top of him, hands shaking as he runs them though my hair. "Gah! I _am_ relaxed."

"Sure you are." I don't think he's buttoned his shirt right since third grade, so I guess I'm lucky he's wearing a t-shirt today. Two quick jerks, up and over, and it's off. For a second I imagine I can see his heart, beating like a scared rabbit's in his chest. I want him so bad right now, and I don't feel an ounce of guilt. Really. Not even when he props himself up on his elbow and kisses me, gripping my upper arm a little too tightly. I'm pretty sure this'll be the final nail in their relationship's coffin anyway. And mine too, if Craig finds out.

_"I swear to God, McCormick, if you get anywhere near him, I'll stick my foot so far up your ass you'll be able to taste it."_

He wasn't stupid. My "vulture technique", as Kyle called it, was pretty well-documented. I'd hang around relationships, waiting for them to self-destruct, and then BAM, go in for the kill. Yeah, it sucks, but it works. One of my crowning achievements (besides saving the world a couple of times) was waiting out the weird little "thing" Bebe Stevens had with some guy from North Park, and then nailing them both when it fell apart.

Terrible? Maybe, but the point is that I shouldn't feel bad about what's going on with Tweek. I've done way worse.

He whimpers into my mouth and my hips jerk down against his, almost involuntarily. Shit. I'm so going to Hell for this. Come on Kenny, just think of it as doing him a favor. Be a shot of espresso, you know? Something to hold the guy over until Craig finally apologizes. Then he can go back to drinking it black.

I don't realize that I'm actually voicing my thoughts until I feel Tweek's lips move against my neck.

"I don't, mmf, don't drink espresso. _Way_ too strong."

Thanks God. Thank you so fucking much. I didn't ask for a sign, but you damn well gave me one anyway, didn't you?

I rest my forehead against Tweek's, breathing hard, and try to ignore how much I want to lick his left collarbone, inches away from my face. "Tweek?"

He shudders. "Hm?"

"Call Craig."

**XXX**

**I do just do this for kicks, but reviews are love, guys.**


	3. Platonic

**Author's Notes: I'm not sure how I feel about this one, but I did like playing around with the prompt. I don't know if I was clear about this before, so these ficlets are only connected if I says so specifically in the Author's Notes. Just making sure we're all on the same pager here. Also, reviews are love, guys. I know this little story is getting readers, and I'd love to know what you think!**

**POV: Bebe**

**Pairing: Bebe/Kenny (onesided)**

**XXX**

"Kenny?"

"Hm?"

"Remind me again why we're doing this?"

"Doin' what?" He shifts against me, hip barely brushing mine. "Stargazing in the bed of a truck, or stargazing in the bed of a truck and not having sex?"

I roll my eyes. Such a freaking smartass. "Guess."

"Okie-dokie." All the blankets are suddenly bundled up and dropped in my lap as he gets to his feet and stretches his arms over his head. "I'm Kenneth Jonathan McCormick, good-looking devil and über skank." He rolls his thin shoulders and I try not to stare as he continues.

"_You're_ Bebe Marie Stevens, cute as all hell, and (I've heard) a pretty good lay. We've been lying four inches away from one another in a completely horizontal position for the past two hours, and the only things we've done are watch falling stars and smoke. So I'm gonna guess you were asking about the sex thing."

"Bingo." I reach up and grab his belt loop, tugging him back down next to me. He's got a skinny little waist, and it's not too hard to wrap my arms around it and nestle my chin into this shoulder. "So why don't we?"

"I dunno, dude."

Dude? Not exactly romantic, but somehow it's the hottest thing I've ever heard in my life. Kenny's funny like that. There are so many things about him that totally turn me off, from his fucking psycho best friend to the nasty Goodwill stuff he always wears. He's thin as fuck, his neighborhood is full of crack houses, and he always looks like he's one missed meal away from working Denver's Red Light District. Oh, and the dying. I've seen his lungs go flying across the biology classroom more times than I can count. It's pretty gross.

And he still manages to be the sexiest guy I know.

I let my lips brush against his neck, trailing super-soft kisses all the way up to his jawbone. "Kenny? Come on..."

He sighs and pulls gently out of my grip. "Look, Bebe, I like you. I really do. And you're totally adorable, so don't start bitching about something being wrong with you. But I just don't like you like that, 'kay?"

For a split second, I'm embarrassed. Then I remember who I'm dealing with. Did that little shit just turn me down? No fucking _way_. I grab his arm and dig my nails in. Hard.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? You screw around with everyone! Since when do you care if you like them 'like that'?"

"Since-"

"And don't you dare tell me 'since we became friends'," I shriek, "because I know for a fact that you don't _have_ a hands-off policy when it comes to your friends!"

He winces, and I realize my nails are leaving raw half moon shapes in his skin. Too bad. He can die and pull his stupid resurrection act if he wants, because I'm not pulling my acrylics out of him anytime soon.

"I mean, Stan Marsh? Seriously? You guys have been friends since, like, preschool, and now all of a sudden you're getting in his pants? That's so fucked up!"

"Not really." He tries to twist his arm out of my grip, shoving back his too-long hair with the other hand. "It's nothing personal, Bebe."

"Nothing personal?" I echo. With a sharp jerk, I pull him forward until our noses are almost touching. I don't know where these words are coming from, but I don't want to stop them. "You're a two-faced, white trash, little slut, Kenny McCormick. And that's all you'll ever be."

He doesn't say anything, but his blue eyes widen just a little.

That's enough for me.

I finally let him go, and cross my arms over my chest. "Take me home, asshole."

**XXX**

**Drop me a review, kittens!**


	4. Fugitive

**Author's Notes: When I finished writing this, I suddenly realized that everyone in the world might not be familiar with the game "Fugitive". It's more popular than "Tag" where I live, so I guess I kind of forgot that most people haven't been playing this since they were yea high. Basically it's like "Cops and Robbers". You pick a playing field (usually a campus of some kind) drop everyone at one end of it, and pick a base at the opposite end. The fugitives have a certain amount of time to make it to the base, and they get a three minute head start. You lose if you get caught by a cop or if you run out of time. It's pretty much always played on foot. Sometimes the cops get in cars and run down the fugitives, but that's only if you've got tons of people and aren't afraid of getting a buttload of tickets. So...yeah. Also, reviews make my life. Getting favorited is awesome, but I'd love to know what it is you like/hate about this fic. **

**POV: Kenny**

**Pairings: Kyle/Cartman (if you squint), slight Kenny/Butters**

**XXX**

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I hate that we had to quit playing this with cars. Seriously, ducking and dodging through alleys and backroads while someone's chasing you in a truck is a hell of a lot better than hiding in a tree. But that's what exactly what I'm doing, ten minutes into the round. It's all Cartman's fault, really. We'd been using cars for weeks when the teams finally broke up the way he wanted: with him as a cop, and Kyle as a fugitive. I remember him rolling down the window of his pickup and telling Kyle that his "Jewish ass" was as good as dead. And it was.

I was riding shotgun, gripping the dash until my knuckles turned white as we hopped curbs, destroyed parking meters, and backed into fire hydrants. I died before we caught the poor kid (probably when we swerved to try and hit that duck), but Clyde filled me in later.

Apparently, Kyle ended up with a broken wrist, courtesy of Cartman's left fender. Oh, and Officer Barbrady marched everybody (minus yours truly) downtown as punishment for the fatass' little Grand Theft Auto impression. I guess that thousands of dollars in blatant property damage can't be winked at, even in South Park.

So, three months later, when we were all un-grounded, we moved our little competition to the North Park community college campus. A bunch of sixteen year olds can look like they belong if they try hard enough. Of course, playing in the middle of the night helps too. Two teams: Stan, Token, Clyde and Craig for the cops; me, Kyle, Butters, Cartman and Tweek as fugitives. I won't deny it, I'm damn good at this game. While everyone else crashed through the bushes and, in Tweek's case, ran screaming into the 24-hour library, I just climbed a tree. I'm about a hundred feet from the base (some modern sculpture thingie) now, draped across a huge branch, and feeling very pleased with myself.

I can see Kyle's lanky form creeping through the darkness below me. He's not doing the best job of hiding himself though, just sort of bending double near a clump of bushes. See, that's the reason he always loses this game; if Craig or Stan come by, the poor bastard's as good as caught. I'm about to yell at him to move, when an arm darts out of the bushes, grabs his wrist, and pulls him out of my line of vision.

"This is why all the Jews got fucked during the Holocaust. You kikes can't hide for shit."

I muffle a laugh in the back of my hand. It figures.

"Go to hell, fatass."

"I thought you didn't believe in hell."

There's a long silence, and even though I can't see either of them, I can image Kyle's green eyes narrowing.

"Let go of my arm, Cartman."

"No, I don't think I- Ow! Son of a bitch!"

Forty bucks says that fat dickwad just got punched. Serves him right. I just hope his bitching doesn't lead anybody over here.

I wrap my arms tighter around my branch and keep my head low, cheek pressed against the rough bark. I'm probably gonna have scrapes all over my face in the morning. Price of victory, I guess.

Kyle finally whispers something, too quiet for me to make out the words. They're probably going to make a break for it. Cartman may not be the fastest guy in the world, but he always has wind for that final sprint. I don't think anything motivates him like the thought of bragging rights.

Everything gets all quiet again, except for the crickets. I love it when the game gets like this; everything seems so important, like it all hinges on one moment. I can hear the Odd Couple's shallow breathing down in the bushes, as they take one last look around for the other team. About five seconds before they go, I pull my feet up onto my perch and cross my fingers. If they get caught, _please_ don't let anyone see me.

And... they're off! Cartman's tearing across the lawn towards the statue, and he's still got his fingers clamped tight around Kyle's wrist, tugging the other kid along behind him. Kyle's matching him stride for stride, even though both their sneakers are slipping on the wet grass. Something flashes past the corner of my eye, and I see Token booking it after them. He's close, but the guys got a good head start. They slam into the stone base, slapping it with their open hands.

"Tag!" Kyle gasps.

"Tag, bitches!"

And only when they're finally safe, leaning back against the stone, does Kyle pull his hand out of Cartman's grip.

"Let go of me, douchebag!"

"Ay! Fuck you, you diabetic piece of shit!"

Those two. Jesus.

I reach up and grab the branch above me, hanging onto it for balance as I get to my feet. The leaves shake and I freeze, holding my breath. Maybe they'll think its a bird. I count to sixty, grinning when Token fails to see me. I've got a better view of the lawn now that I'm standing up, and it's empty. I could probably make it. Stan may be lurking in the bushes somewhere, watching the base, but I know I can outrun him. (And if he manages to tackle me and hold me down, well, I'm okay with that too.) Craig's kind of the wild card at this point; I haven't seen him in a while. Of course, I haven't seen Tweek either, so... Right. One less enemy to deal with.

I crouch down on the wide branch, ready to jump. Three, two...

"Kenny?"

"_Shit!_" I nearly fall out of the tree in shock, managing to wrap my legs around the branch at the last second. The grounds spins and I suddenly feel sick. When I open my eyes (didn't even know they'd been closed), the only things I can see are my own hands, curled into claws against the bark. Lovely.

"Well gee Kenny, I'm awful sorry. I thought ya knew I was here."

I turn my head, and there, sitting in the Y formed by my branch and the tree trunk, with his hand on the small of my back, is Butters Stotch. _"Knew he was there"? Right. The kid's a fucking Houdini._

"Nope." I swallow. Heights don't usually bother me, but I haven't died in a couple of days and I'm looking to get out of this game without busting my head open on a rock. Just kind of a personal preference. "Dude," I sit back up gingerly and turn towards him, "where the hell did you come from? How long have you been there?"

He does that weird knuckle-bump thing and grins at me sheepishly. "Why, I've been sittin' right here the whole time."

"No, you haven't. I'd have seen you." I rub my left palm. I think I've skinned it. Skinned my freaking _hand_. God, the things I do to win.

"I'm good at hidin', Kenny. Why, why when I do somethin' really rotten, an' my parents are lookin' for me, I just get up on our roof and wait it out. Then they forget 'bout it." The whole time he's been talking, he's scooted along the branch until he's right next to me. Funny thing about Butters: I don't think he really gets the concept of a personal bubble. I mean, yeah, I touch people all the time, but it's got a purpose, you know? Like today in third hour, I let my fingers brush against the back of Kyle's hand for a little too long when he passed me back my math quiz. Why? Because he's cute when he blushes. 'S all there is to it.

Butters though...He's pressed right up against me, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder, and I know he still doesn't mean anything by it. He's a good kid.

I crack my knuckles, grip the branch we're sitting on, and swing down to the ground in one smooth movement, sneakers sinking into the mud. "I don't really believe you, but we don't have time to argue. I'm gonna be running for base in about forty seconds. Try not to give me away, huh?"

"Okie-dokie! But lis-listen, I wanna go with you. Stan's in the bushes, and he's gonna catch me for sure." He clambers down the trunk, scratching, sliding and slipping all the way to the ground. He lands ass-first in the mud and I roll my eyes.

"Fine."

Three way-too-excited "oh boy"s later, I've got a hand clapped over his mouth and some serious regrets. "I swear, dude, if you get us caught, I'll freaking kill you. Got it?"

He nods at me, blue eyes wide, and I take my hand away from his face.

"Got it," he whispers.

"Atta boy." I take one last survey of the lawn, take a deep breath, and try to ignore Butters' sweaty little hand, suddenly clinging to mine.

We run.

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	5. Sandwich

**Author's Notes: This one was rather a long time coming, wasn't it? I have an excuse though, I swear. Every time I tried to write something, it started getting really cohesive, more like a story than drabbles. So I've decided that there's a rather long, multi-chapter fic in the works for me right now, using some of the ideas I tried to put into this. I don't know why I get all these ideas a week before finals, but hey, why not? I'm not abandoning this by any means, nor am I on official hiatus, it's just that updates will be a few and far between for a while. What with the multi-chapter Stan/Kenny fic I'm planning, and the Cartman/Kyle drabble set I've got cooking in my head right now, _C'est La Vie_ may have to go on the back burner for a tad. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy this latest drabble. I think its one of my favorites.**

**POV: Kenny**

**Pairing: None (OMFG genfic!)**

**XXX  
**

The night of their first sleepover, Kyle had refused, point blank, to sleep next to Cartman. Funny, they were only six years old, but both boys had seemed to sense the hatred that would grow between them through the years. It was only a simmering dislike then, spawned by total incompatibility, and neither of them felt, in their own childish way, that reconciliation was worth the effort.

Stan had sided with Kyle, like he always did. And Kenny thought they were all just fucking stupid.

But stupid or not, Kyle had gotten his way. When they all finally slid into the sleeping bags on the Marsh's living room floor, Cartman ended up on the far left, with Kenny next to him; Stan curled up against Kenny, and Kyle stretched out on the opposite side, far from any neo-Nazi germs.

Sleeping arrangements never changed after that. For years, Kenny would always find himself sandwiched between Cartman and Stan, without quite knowing how. They never planned it, never decided on spots. It was just the way things were. He really didn't mind, when he thought about it. All he had at home was a thin mattress and an even thinner blanket; Cartman's warm bulk, Stan's unconscious cuddling, and Kyle's snores were almost luxuries.

They'd all quit planning sleepovers when they were thirteen, after Cartman had deemed the practice "fucking gay". Of course, hanging out at one another's houses really late and happening to fall asleep didn't count.

Kenny never knew why he found the arrangement so important, or why, ten years after the initial decision, he's sitting on a vomit-stained couch at one of Craig's legendary parties, looking at the guys on either side of him, grinning like an idiot.

"Kenny?" Stan nudges him with an elbow. "What are you staring at, dude?"

_Someone who once made a kid eat his own parents. Someone who almost died for a bunch of retarded baby cows. Someone who sold me out in front of 300 Jewish boy scouts, but I know didn't really mean it._

Kenny shakes his head. "Nothing." He leans back into the smelly upholstery, stares into the cup of cheap booze in his hand, and tries to hide his smile.

**XXX**

**Reeeevvviiiieeewww.... Ahem. Please. **


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